


His Ghost isn't what Haunts Us

by screamingarrows



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Happy Ending, M/M, Sanders is a demon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2018-12-23 06:17:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11983899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screamingarrows/pseuds/screamingarrows
Summary: “I have some, bad news, for you, Solo. I'm afraid I could not bargain for your sentence to be transferred to UNCLE."Napoleon's heart stutters and then races, pounding in his ears. He’s sure his face flushes and he works at keeping his voice steady."Am I being called back?"Sanders eyes dart across his face and Napoleon hopes he has remained neutral."You have two days."





	1. Chapter 1

Napoleon’s phone rings and he answers it absently, engrossed in the file in front of him. The important calls never go directly to agents anyways, always to Waverly or another head to be divvied amongst the masses.

“Solo,” he answers, flipping the page of the dossier.

“Hello, Solo,” a raspy voice replies and Napoleon freezes, looking up like he might see the man in the room.

“Agent Sanders,” he says, forcing a smile and pushing cheer into his voice. “What can I do for you?”

Illya looks up from his desk, adjacent to Napoleon’s, but Napoleon ignores him, continuing to covertly look around the room. It wouldn’t be unusual to have Sanders call him while he’s in the room, if only to see how he’d react. Illya picks up on his mood and looks behind Napoleon, looking where Napoleon couldn’t without being obvious. Not for the first time since he’s been with UNCLE, he’s deeply appreciative of his partners. Illya shakes his head and Napoleon relaxes in his seat.

“I’m going to need you to come in,” Sanders says and Napoleon narrows his eyes. “How’s 6:30 sound?” Napoleon’s eyes dart to Illya before falling to his desk. He wants to protest but he doesn’t want to start trouble. Waverly is more accommodating than Sanders; Napoleon’s sure he can make it up to him for leaving early today.

“That sounds great, sir.” Sanders gives him a location and Napoleon waits until he hears the phone click as Sanders disconnects before hanging up. Illya waits, staring impatiently, but when it becomes clear Napoleon’s not going to speak first he leans in and asks, “What does he want?”

“A meeting; tonight.” Napoleon looks up with a smile and Illya’s frown deepens. “It’s nothing, Peril, don’t worry about it.”

Illya hums, but doesn’t say anything as Gaby arrives at her desk. Her face grows concerned as she looks between the two of them. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Napoleon says and Illya hums again before looking away.

“I really wish you wouldn’t get into it _every_ time my back is turned.” Gaby says with false disappointment. Napoleon and Illya haven’t truly argued since the first few months of working together. Now, fifteen missions and almost eleven months in, the three of them have fallen into a groove and have learned to work around and through their differences.

“Well, Cowboy is insufferable,” Illya mutters and Napoleon laughs, a true smile blooming on his face.

Napoleon never thought he’d have this. All his life he’s lived alone and now he’s starting to realize what he missed. He lets Gaby and Illya distract him, pushing the impending meeting with Sanders out of his mind.

Napoleon waits until the two of them have settled back into work before he stands quietly and walks across the bullpen to Waverly’s office. He knocks on the open frame of Waverly’s office and waits until the man looks up and waves him in.

“Mr. Solo,” Waverly greets. His expression stays open even after Napoleon closes the door behind him and Napoleon is struck, not for the first time, with the awareness of what a good spy Waverly truly is. He’s unfazed, even by- or perhaps especially by- his own agents’ reactions; it’s something Sanders never quite manages.

“May I leave early; before lunch?”

Waverly leans forward and gives Napoleon a curious look. “Is something wrong?”

Napoleon licks his lips before giving Waverly a simple smile, lips pressed together but for all intents and purposes he’s happy. Waverly doesn’t look fooled by the look, but he doesn’t necessarily have to be.

“Agent Sanders contacted me and requested a meeting.” The words burn out of him; this is very clearly a power play over both Napoleon and Waverly. Sanders is proving he holds Napoleon’s leash and there’s nothing Waverly can do about it. Waverly frowns, but his displeasure is not with Napoleon.

“Very well,” Waverly says, a frown tilting his lips. Napoleon’s forced smile melts into a true one and Waverly matches it. He looks suddenly tired and his eyes are dark with worry. Napoleon’s not used to having that look directed at him and he resists the urge to shuffle his feet.

“Do be careful, Solo.”

Napoleon inclines his head. “Of course, sir. Thank you,” he says and walks back out of the office.

Gaby glances up and meets his eye as he walks back to his desk and she sets her pen aside.

“Are you alright?” she asks once he approaches and Illya looks up. Napoleon nods at them and gives them a weak smile.

“Sanders wants to meet with me. I have to go.”

“Now?” Illya asks and Gaby furrows her eyebrows.

“What does he want?”

“I don’t know,” Napoleon answers Gaby quickly and then shrugs. “He wants to meet in D.C.; I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“Do you want backup?” Gaby asks and Illya’s mouth is parted; she’d just beat him to asking and he smiles at them.

“I’ll be fine,” he promises. He puts on his jacket and grabs his briefcase. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

\----

Napoleon arrives at the inconspicuous house and lets himself in. Most of the lights are off, with the exception of one room which casts the main floor of house in an unsettling half-lit yellow light. There’s sound, the distinct noise of dishes rattling softly against each other; he’s sure it’s deliberate, and so he follows the noise deeper into the house cautiously. Despite the age, the floors don’t creak as he moves and he peers around the corner of the kitchen to see Sanders standing at the counter, steeping a cup of tea. Napoleon doesn’t let himself frown as he steps into the room, making his presence known. Sanders looks at him over his shoulder and Napoleon can see the smirk as he looks away.

“You look well,” Sanders says. He turns before Napoleon can decide how to respond to that and gestures to the table. “Sit.” Napoleon obeys slowly, resisting the urge to look around. The back of his neck tingles in a way it hasn’t since Gaby has begun watching his back. It feels like a set up and he angles his chair so that he’d be ready to stand if he needs to. Sanders watches him with the knowing smirk on his face.

“How are you getting along at UNCLE?”

"Splendidly, sir." 

"Good, good." Sanders sits across from him and Napoleon tightens his hands into fists on his lap in attempt to ease the tension in his arms. “And the Ruskie? Get any secrets from him?”

Napoleon tenses, tilts his head and eyes Sanders carefully. The smirk eases off his face and Napoleon sees the danger lurking in Sanders’ eyes.

"No," Napoleon says slowly. "I was under the impression this was a transfer, not an undercover mission." 

Sanders stares at him, narrowing his eyes slightly. Napoleon's stomach tightens as the silence stretches until Sanders smiles. Napoleon tries not to make it obvious that he stiffens, his shoulders drawing tight under his jacket. 

"Very well," he says finally, looking away. He stays silent for a moment longer and Napoleon, again, looks around the room. He doesn't think Sanders would arrange for a beating, the usual warnings of such a thing aren't even shown, but one can never be too careful. 

“Is there a reason I had to drive all the way out to Washington?” Napoleon finally asks after sitting in tense silence. Sanders sighs and leans forward, looking at Napoleon as though he wears the world on his shoulders and Napoleon is just more weight added to his load.

“I have some, bad news, for you, Solo,” Sanders says in the drawn-out pattern of his. Napoleon eyes the doors and blinks his attention back to Sanders.

“And what is that, sir?”

"I'm afraid I could not bargain for your sentence to be transferred to UNCLE. You can only serve out your time with the CIA." 

Napoleon's heart stutters and then races, pounding in his ears. He’s sure his face flushes and he works at keeping his voice steady.

"Am I being called back?"

Sanders eyes dart across his face and Napoleon hopes he has remained neutral.  

"I'm sorry to tell you this," Sanders says, but his face has not changed from the calculated gaze he's kept on Napoleon. Napoleon blinks, inclines his head into a slight nod. 

"Is it immediate or do I have time to-" _to go back and say goodbye,_ "collect my things?" 

"You have two days." 

Two days. He can... he can live with two days. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember i love you

They’re waiting for him at his apartment when he gets back. He’s not sure why that’s a surprise; they’ve all but moved in. Despite Illya’s remarks to the contrary, he likes being pampered just as much as Gaby and Napoleon’s home is nothing if not luxurious. Ordinarily it thrills him to see them there, comfortable and safe and loved, but tonight he doesn’t have the energy to face them.

He walks in and slips his shoes off, walking in socks along his carpet and into the kitchen. Illya peers around the corner, a white apron wrapped around him and Napoleon tries desperately to memorize the way he looks, one hand raising to smooth down his golden hair as he takes a step forward, his blue eyes oh so serious.

“You’re back late,” Illya says and Napoleon’s heart aches.

“I know,” he replies and he can hear Gaby deeper in the kitchen, the sound of a pot moving off the stove.

“Napoleon?” Gaby says and appears around Illya a moment later. He walks towards them, drawn like a magnet to the aura of love the exude. “What did he want?” she asks.

“It was nothing,” he says and God, he hates himself. He shouldn’t lie to them; they have done nothing to deserve this, but he’s not sure he could stand them fighting, only to be taken away regardless.

“You do not look like it was nothing.” Napoleon’s eyes dart up at Illya’s words.

“Would I lie to you, Peril?”

Illya’s frown deeps and a rock of guilt settles deep in Napoleon’s stomach.

“Well we have dinner ready,” Gaby says and Illya’s mouth presses into a thin line, clearly having more to say on the matter and upset Gaby changed the subject. Napoleon’s not sure he can eat, but he smiles nonetheless, pulling up a mask as easily as putting on a jacket.

Illya turns and walks back into the kitchen and Napoleon moves to follow. As he passes Gaby, she reaches out and rests a hand on his arm. He hesitates and looks down at her; she looks sad and Napoleon reaches to cup her face. He can feel the muscles in her jaw through her cheek as they clench and he leans in to kiss her forehead. He pulls away before either can speak and heads into the kitchen.

The night passes in a blur. They sleep pressed against him and he knows he should relish in this while he can, but he wishes it were a clean break. He wishes Sanders hadn’t allowed him to return because then he wouldn’t have to deal with this slow, painful separation of them from his life.

Morning lights up his room, a colorless grey and then like a switch, the sun breaks over the horizon and the room is illuminated in the light that filters through the blinds. Gaby turns her head, pushing it deeper into her pillow and Illya begins to stir, his legs stretching, brushing up against the length of Napoleon’s before he blinks his eyes open blearily.

Napoleon can see the moment he wakes fully because the open, vulnerable expression slides off his face and he focuses on Napoleon, a worried crease already on his forehead.

“You’re up,” Illya says softly. Napoleon usually need more motivation to wake but before Illya can comment on this, Napoleon hums and leans in to kiss Illya high on the cheek, just under his eye.

“Only for a moment,” he teases and wiggles deeper into the bed. That seems to relax Illya and he huffs as he sits up. He looks over at Napoleon and Gaby with a fond smile.

“Lazy spies,” he murmurs and Napoleon closes his eyes and gives him a lazy smile. He keeps his eyes closed until he hears the soft click of the bathroom door shutting and the sound of the shower starting.

He rolls over and wraps an arm around Gaby, pulling her to him. She shifts and curves her body against him and he buries his face in her hair. He only gets a minute to revel in the moment before Gaby gets too hot and begins to wake up fully. She rolls over in his arms and smiles sleepily up at him.

“Are you feeling better?” she asks, bringing a hand up to run her fingers through his hair.

“I always feel better when I’m with you,” he says and she huffs a laugh. The water shuts off and Gaby stretches against him before rolling out of bed. She moves to her closet and Napoleon follows suit, stiff from his night of laying still, and goes to his own closet. He gets dressed without thought, but when he turns around, he makes sure he looks relaxed, carefree. He just wants his last days with them to be normal.

They arrive at work together, as they do most days and move without comment to their own spaces to get ready for the day. Napoleon sits at his desk and tries to radiate calm and a sense of _I-should-be-here_. He feels like a con; a con at his own desk, at his own work, with his own friends. There’s a voice screaming at him, _blaming_ him for this. He knew better than to get attached. He knows nothing good happens when he’s leashed and he’s still very much leashed.

He almost opens his mouth to tell them, but he just clenches his jaw and stays silent. He knows them well enough to know they won’t stand by and let Sanders take him without a fight. It won’t work, but they’ll spend the remaining moments he has with them arguing and strategizing and that’s far from what he wants.

So instead, he smiles and jokes and slips into the clothes of a happy, loved man and goes through his usual actions. He teases Illya; he steals a bracelet from the secretary so Gaby can try to replace it for practice. He aches with sorrow and want and he wishes more than anything he got to keep this.

Five o’clock rolls around far too quickly. Gaby grabs her coat and Illya’s pulling his cap low over his eyes when Napoleon forces himself to look busy.

“Go on without me,” he says, waving a distracted hand and giving them a smile.

“Are you sure?” Illya asks. He’s watching Napoleon closely and Napoleon makes sure he’s relaxed and loose-limbed.

“Yes, I just need to clarify something with Waverly.”

“Alright,” Gaby says. She, too, is looking suspiciously at Napoleon. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Of course,” he says and she glances around the semi-empty office before leaning in and giving him a hug. “Goodnight, Peril,” he says and Illya gives him a thin-lipped smile. He busies himself at his desk until he’s sure they’re gone and then he straightens, pats himself free of wrinkles before walking to Waverly’s open office and knocking on the door jam.

“Solo,” Waverly says, voice surprised. “What can I do for you?”

Napoleon steps into the office and closes the door behind him. “I spoke with Sanders last night,” he says and Waverly puts down his pen, giving Napoleon his full attention.

“He’s calling me back to the CIA.”

Waverly swallows hard, his face transforming from open and friendly to the harshness of his role as director of UNCLE.

“Excuse me?” There’s an edge to Waverly’s voice. Napoleon hesitates before continuing.

“He says my contract doesn’t allow me to be leased to other organizations. I’m being recalled.”

Waverly’s silent and Napoleon works at keeping his breathing calm and slow. “Do you want to fight this? You have saved the world with the work you’ve done for UNCLE, let alone the work you’ve done at the CIA. We have excellent legal here, we can try for your freedom.”

Napoleon has to swallow hard around the emotion welling in his throat. “I appreciate that, sir,” he says and smiles softly. “But Sanders is,” he hesitates and Waverly nods like he understands what Napoleon can’t say.

“Very well,” Waverly says, softly. He stands and walks around his desk, moving to shake Napoleon’s hand. “You have been a credit to this organization and if you’re ever in the opportunity to return, your desk will be here.”

“Thank you,” Napoleon says, voice thick with emotion. He leaves in a hurry and stands on the stoop of the building, breathing in the crisp air. His eyes sting and his breath catches in his throat. He starts walking, biting the inside of his lip to keep from openly crying until he gets into the safety of his home.

He sinks to his knees when he gets in, slumped against the door and lets his sadness overwhelm him. He’s not sure how long he sat there, but when he stands he’s numb. After taking a moment to look at his home, he begins to pack methodically, going from room to room and carefully tucking away anything of value to him.

He leaves behind the expensive pieces of art scattered through his home, positive Sanders will just take it away when he goes back, but he makes sure he packs up the dishes Waverly got him as a house-warming gift, the pictures of him sandwiched between Gaby and Illya taken at an office party. A thin ring that he usually wears on a chain under his shirt; the ring that matches the one Illya wears on his pinky and the one Gaby wears on the appropriate finger on her left hand.

It doesn’t take long and a part of him aches at the knowledge his life here can be packaged in just a few boxes, but the greater part of him is glad most of it is memories and he won’t ever lose that.

When he finally climbs into bed, he leaves his clothes rumpled in the corner of his room and he sleeps restlessly. He’s slept alone since joining UNCLE; Gaby and Illya do have their own home and pretenses to keep and so he’s used to it, but tonight, the bed feels too empty, too large, too cold. In the privacy of his own home he can’t pretend he doesn’t know what tomorrow brings. He can’t pretend that he won’t be leaving without a word and he can’t pretend he doesn’t know they’ll hate him for that.

The sun rises and burns his tired, swollen eyes, but he stretches and gets out of bed slowly. He showers and dresses without thought and moves through the house like a ghost.

It’s not empty. His heart clenches at the thought. It’s not empty, but it’s completely devoid of _him_. _Of his life_.

He makes a pot of coffee, but leaves it to cool. The aroma wakens him enough and he continues his slow trek back to the bathroom and straightens his tie snuggly around his neck. He practices smiling, watching his reflection as his eyes crinkle and he can’t even see the sadness in them. He laughs until it doesn’t sound forced and he breathes, rolls his shoulders into a relaxed stance.

“Today is going to be a good day,” he says softly to himself and nods before leaving the room and making his way out the front door.

There is a small café only a few blocks from UNCLE headquarters; he and Gaby had discovered it on one of their many wanderings and they brought back a pastry for Illya that was quickly devoured. Since then, it’s a regular occurrence to meet there for a quick breakfast, especially when they are apart for the night. His steps lengthen the closer he gets to them and when the café drifts into view, he actually does feel more relaxed.

Illya sees him first and gives him a small wave, his lips pressed into a smile and Gaby turns, beaming brighter than the sun. He loves them. He never says it enough, but he loves them with every fiber in his being.

He tries to convince himself that keeping the secret until tonight is something he _has_ to do; tries to argue that Sanders would destroy them if they tried to challenge him, but he knows he’s being selfish. He just wants the one thing he can control; he wants a good day.

So, he does what he does best. He lies. He smiles, he laughs, he says the right words when it’s expected of him. And while he does this, he memorizes everything about them. He’s become an expert at memorizing small details; it’s how he knew when a painting was a fake, it’s how he knew which era pottery really came from. He files everything about them to memory. The way Gaby holds a pencil, the way Illya rubs the bridge of his nose when he’s focused on paperwork. The feeling of Gaby hugging him and the way Illya’s smile makes him warm from the inside out.

The end of the day rolls around. Gaby’s pulling on her coat and Illya is locking his desk when Waverly walks past them, seemingly casual, but his eyes linger on Napoleon a moment too long.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, agents. Have a good night.”

“Goodnight, Waverly,” Gaby says with a smile.

“Goodnight, sir,” Napoleon says and it’s not nearly enough, but it’s all he can say when he’s memorizing the color of Waverly’s eyes, the small scar he has above his thumb, the way he knots his tie at his throat. Napoleon’s frozen at his desk, only able to move when Gaby calls for him across the room. He looks up and the both smile lightly at him and his chest _aches_. He _wants_. He’s always wanted too much.

He walks them home and makes them dinner. A silence has fallen over them and any attempts at lightening the mood fail. He imagines they know him well enough to sense the tension on him and so he stops trying to make them laugh, focusing instead on cooking their last meal.

It’s almost finished when he stages a spill of oil on his sleeve and excuses himself to the bedroom to change. He takes this moment to steal a bracelet from Gaby’s jewelry box, replacing it with a beautiful necklace, and a comb of Illya’s from the sink. It’s plastic and cheap and Napoleon replaces it with one of the expensive ones from a store in the city.

When he comes out, they’re setting the table and they eat in stilted silence. He’s not sure if they’re always this quiet and he’s simply projecting or if they can sense the finality of the night. They eat slowly, and when the meal is all but over, Napoleon clears his throat and sets his silverware down.

“I must confess something,” he says and gives them a tight smile. “I will be returning to the CIA. Tonight.” He swallows hard. They exchange looks between them and Illya cocks his head.

“What?”

“I’ve been recalled.” He tries to keep his face smiling, friendly; he tries to pretend this isn’t a disaster, but he can feel his cheeks quivering and he blinks at the prickling burning in his eyes.

“I knew something was wrong!” Gaby shouts. “What did he do? Threaten you?”

“No—,” he says and wishes it had been that easy.

“Napoleon, please, be honest with us!” Gaby looks like she’s moments away from standing, like her righteous anger might carry her directly to Sanders.

“I am,” he insists, but he can tell neither of them believe him. He doesn’t begrudge them that distrust. Gaby growls and slams her fists on the table. Illya drops his silverware nosily on his plate and his hands go to his lap, where Napoleon is sure they’re quivering in clenched fists.

“We can fight this! You don’t have to go back! Waverly can—,“

“Gaby—,” he tries, but she won’t let herself be interrupted.

“—help you! You can’t just—,“

“You’re not listening—,“

“—give up! We’ll fight for you!”

“I don’t want you to!” Napoleon all but shouts. Gaby’s mouth snaps shut. “I don’t want you to fight this. We all knew it was inevitable. Whether it be me or… or Illya, this,” he gestures to the space between the three of them, “this wasn’t meant to last.”

Illya recoils and Gaby’s eyes fill with tears too quickly to blink away and she quickly wipes them off her cheek.

“How could you say that?” Illya asks, voice sounding throaty and wrecked. For an instant, he wants to apologize, to take back his heartless words and beg for their understanding, but then he thinks about how much he wishes he had had the option of a clean break and he has to do this for them.

“Let’s not be oblivious,” he says and keeps his voice light. He might as well be talking about the weather. “Did you truly not think this was a possibility? Does Oleg not hold the right to whisk you away back Russia whenever he so choses? You still get his phone calls, same as I receive Sanders’. It’s Waverly’s rules we follow, but we’re owned by different men.”

The muscles in Illya’s jaw jump.

“Don’t,” Gaby’s voice falls as a whisper. “Don’t do this. Not to us, don’t lie to us, Napoleon.”

It’s almost painful to keep smile. He bites the inside of his lip hard enough to bleed and he swallows, clears his throat. He can’t take much more of this.

“It’s been a pleasure working with you.” He looks at the space between their heads, unable to look into Gaby’s eyes swimming with tears or the way Illya looks so lost, so like the time he showed up in Napoleon’s bedroom with a gun and a mission. Napoleon nods once, and then stands. The weight of his guilt nearly crushes him, demands he falls to his knees and confess everything he feels.

“Please, stay safe,” he says instead. Illya’s shoulders are trembling; it’s only a matter of time before the table is flipped and dishes are strewn around the room. Gaby shoots up from her chair so fast it topples over. Both Illya and Napoleon look at her, frozen, before she starts shouting at him. Napoleon swallows around the lump in his throat and retreats towards the door. He half expects her to follow him, but she doesn’t. He closes the door on them and his legs buckle, but he forces himself to stay upright and keep walking.

Napoleon walks home, using instinct more than sight. He gets into his car without even bothering to go inside his home and he drives.

He drives until he’s out of the city and then he pulls over and sobs against the steering wheel, screaming out the unfairness of his life. He cries until the tears simply stop coming and his breaths relax from the ragged heaves from his sobbing. He pulls back on the road and heads straight for Washington without reason to stop. He stares at the road, the yellow lights from the highway passing in a hypnotic wave; he tries not to think of their faces, tries not imagine them rushing to his apartment like it was a cruel prank and they might find him sitting in the living room instead of the lifeless space he left behind. He tries not to think of them going on missions or… or forgetting about him; of him simply becoming an old partner who left them cruelly without warning. He can’t bear the thought of being just someone they used to work with.

He drives and drives and thinks too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay pls dont be too mad at me! Remember I only write happen endings! I'm thinking that this fic will end up being about 6 chapters, give or take. I haven't fully read through this chapter for mistakes so if you see anything heinous feel free to tell me! I was just too excited to post to wait for a read through ;P
> 
> And if any of yall can tell me how to write a broken dialog with the --" thing pls let me know! 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr under the same username!


	3. Chapter 3

He spends a lot of time alone in DC. He doesn’t trust anyone who works with Sanders and it’s obvious they don’t like him. He goes into the office, does his work, and goes home. He doesn’t try to make friends, doesn’t try to charm his way into the lives (and bedrooms) of the cute receptionist working there. He’s there to run out the clock until he can go back home.

He keeps Gaby's bracelet around his wrist. It's simple gold, thinner than a man's would be, but he'd rather be mocked for it than leave it behind. He packs up Illya's comb every day, carrying it in his briefcase to work and in a case, sandwiched between his trousers when he's on a mission. 

He thinks about them often. Wonders if Illya is still with UNCLE or if he, too, was recalled to the KGB and he wonders how he is either way. He wonders if Gaby continued as an agent or rose above and became a handler; he wonders if she still has nightmares. 

He goes to bed each night thinking about them and wakes up with them on his mind. Some night he dreams about them. It’s a blessing when he doesn’t dream at all.  

\----- 

He writes them a letter at Christmas. 

He doesn’t hear back from them until New Years. _We were on a mission_ , they explain in their letter back and he accepts it as if he doesn’t know Waverly tries to avoid sending them on holiday missions. He’s just thankful they decided to respond at all.

They exchange stilted letters, few and far between, but Napoleon cherishes them. His life with the CIA feels bleaker than before and these connections feel like a ray of light.

Things only start to get better when he sends Illya a birthday gift. He sure he probably shouldn’t, but he sees the well-made, plain wallet and sends it before he can second guess himself. Napoleon waits several weeks for a response and he spends those empty weeks angry at himself for upsetting the status quo.

He gets a phone call almost a month later and when he hears Illya’s voice on the other line his heart races and he’s frozen in place.

“Solo?” Illya asks after too much silence has filled the space and Napoleon forces himself to breath.

“Yeah, sorry. I’m here.”

“Thank you,” Illya says, “for the gift.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

They fall silent and Napoleon can hear the gentle breathing of Illya over the line. 

“How are you?”

“Fine.” Illya answers shortly and Napoleon winces.

“Good. That’s good,” Napoleon says weakly.

“How—,”

“I have to go,” Illya says quickly and Napoleon snaps his mouth shut.

“Okay,” Napoleon says. The _I love you_ almost falls from his lips on habit. The line goes dead a moment later and Napoleon listens to the dial tone before he can gather the energy to hang up the receiver.

They don’t call again, but the letters continue. Napoleon keeps each one hidden safely away and he drops whatever he’s doing to reply right away. They continue this for a year, and the language, the tone of their letters relaxes and Napoleon almost imagines they’re friends again. He takes immense comfort in their words and when he comes home to his empty apartment, when he cooks himself dinner, when he’s held up in a hospital with no one to visit or care if he ever leaves, he thinks of who he was to them once, he thinks of their words and it doesn’t matter if he’s alone, because he will wring out every drop of companionship he can get from them. 

When he left them, he never expected to see them again. Even if he survives the remaining years in the CIA, even if he returns to UNCLE, he doesn’t doubt they wouldn’t wish to work with him. The letters they trade make him warm in the knowledge that they might become friends again, but he’s not foolish enough to hope they’d welcome him back into their lives as he once was.

 _We were thinking_ , the cramped script of Gaby’s says, _we could come take a trip to DC_. The pen has pressed down on the paper long enough to leave a dark ink splotch and the next letters appear thick and ugly. _For your birthday_.

His heart skips a beat and he rushes to reply. He’s in the middle of writing he has plenty of room and they’re more than welcome, when he pauses and reality forces him into awareness. They won’t wish to stay with him. He doesn’t need to push his luck. He throws the letter away and restarts, assuring them there is a lovely hotel not too far and he’ll even pay for the room. He puts the letter out in the mail and when he goes to bed, there’s hope and excitement blossoming in his chest in a way it hadn’t in years.

\--

He’s sent on a mission five days before Gaby and Illya were set to arrive in DC. He tries not to let to bone-crushing disappointment weigh him down as Sanders hands him the mission perimeters.

When he writes to them that night, his hands begin to tremble and cause the lines on his letters to wobble. He has half a mind to restart after he calms down, but he wants them to know he’s sincerely upset and leaves it. A little piece of honesty they can deduce from him.

 _I’m sorry_ , he writes, _I was looking forward to seeing you. I really wanted to see you._

When he gets back, a week and half later, his arm is in a sling and he has a mountain of paperwork to do, but there’s a letter waiting for him and a small package covered in brown paper.

 _We understand_ , Illya’s tight script reads. _Have a happy birthday_.

Underneath, Gaby writes, _Stay warm_ , and sketches a picture of a chair at the beach, a sun with sunglasses on shining above it. Napoleon sinks into his couch and his eyes burn with emotion. Carefully, like it’s made of porcelain, he turns over the small package in his hands and gently unwraps the paper to reveal a sturdy box, inside of which is a watch. It’s beautiful; a dark navy face with silver numbers and a thick silver chain.

He loves it and writes to them as such. He says, _you’ll have to come visit on your next vacation. The trees will be in full bloom and it’s beautiful here. Or perhaps I could visit you; I miss New York._ Sanders doesn’t give him too much time off; he claims it’s to keep Napoleon out of trouble, but Napoleon thinks it has more to do with the power Sanders can wield over him. Regardless, Napoleon’s sure he could at least make a day trip; take a long weekend and visit them. Maybe even see Waverly.

With renewed positivity, he sets the letter to go out in the mail and pours himself a glass of scotch. He turns the radio on and makes himself dinner, feeling not quite happy but hopeful. He sits down at the table with their watch on his wrist and closes his eyes, pretending, for just a moment, that they’re just in the other room.

\----

They never do meet up.

It takes Napoleon longer than he’s proud to admit to realize Sanders is reading his letters. Looking back, it’s obvious; every time they planned to get together, Napoleon was sent out on a mission or his off-days only corresponded to when they told him they were going on a mission. Napoleon’s angry, and isn’t sure why he’s surprised. It’s not unlike Sanders to destroy any shred of potential happiness Napoleon would acquire.

It makes it both easier and harder when he writes to them again, apologizing and promising they’ll be able to get together sometime soon. Easier because now he doesn’t have hope, he’s not excited and it makes it easier to lie; but that’s the double-edged sword. He _hates_ lying to them, but surely lying to them is the least harm he’s caused.

He says, _I’m sorry, I’ve just been called away. I won’t be home for Christmas, but I’ll try to see you on New Year’s_. He puts the letter in the mailbox before he leaves to board a plane, certain he won’t even be home before the first.

\-----

The next few years go by just as slowly as the first ten years did. The more often they cancel plans, the longer they’re apart, the stiffer their letters become until they just stop coming all together. It’s better this way, Napoleon recites to himself. It’s better this way. It’s better this way. It’s better this way. 

He works solo missions and comes home to an empty apartment and cooks himself dinner and sleeps alone. He manages to finally break himself free of the habits he’d gained from the time he worked at UNCLE. He’s gotten used to never getting a truly good, deep sleep, he’s become accustomed to the mistrust and distain his fellow agents give him and he’s _finally_ broken the twitch he had, an instinctive turn to look for signals from Illya or Gaby. 

He’d finally stopped waiting for the end and, like a pot only boils once you look away, the end approaches without fanfare. One day he just looks at the calendar and a surprised smile creeps across his face.

A grand total of four and a half years pass and the day marks the fifteenth-year anniversary of his sentencing. It's his last day and once 5 o'clock comes around, he's allowed to leave the CIA a free man. 

He works with a sudden speed he hadn't had since he'd first started and had been desperate to prove himself lest he be tossed into prison. It's 4:45 and he stands from his  _empty_  desk and walks to Sanders office. He has to wait and it's five minutes until he's free when Sanders opens his door and calls him in. 

"What?" Sanders asks, a laugh clear in his voice. Napoleon narrows his eyes; he feels too hot and too cold all at once. "You're not leaving." 

Napoleon steps forward, "I had a contract-" 

"That means nothing," Sanders says, speaking over him. Napoleon freezes. "It was a formality, but Solo, the only way you're leaving here is in a box. You're too valuable to just let go." 

"There was... I… A judge signed-" 

"Do you really think anyone in this government will let you go, Solo?" Sanders sounds tired, but his eyes are bright and watching Napoleon intensely. "I have proof of your theft throughout your service to the CIA. Try to fight this and you'll only be doing yourself more harm." 

He's numb, he's completely numb. Who would have thought it would've been better to go to prison, he wonders, eyes darting to Sanders. 

"Go put your stuff back in your desk; I'll see you tomorrow." 

"Yes, sir." he responds like in a fog and mindlessly replaces his things on his desk, ignoring the amused looks of the agents in the bullpen. 

He goes home and sits on his couch, staring at the plain wall he didn't bother to decorate.

 _You're not leaving._  

Napoleon goes to his desk and pulls out a pad of paper, uncaps his pen. 

_The only way you're leaving here is in a box._

He starts writing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember. i love you <3 i'm hoping the next chapter will be up in the next few weeks!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chap was fun ngl we're starting to get to the good bits <3

It’s a relatively quiet day at UNCLE headquarters, so when Waverly’s office door is jerked open so hard it slams against the wall, swinging back to bounce into Waverly’s body standing in the door way, it immediately attracts the attention of the bullpen. His hair is ruffled and he’s breathing hard, but before anyone can so much as ask, his eyes meet Gaby’s.

“Teller! Kuryakin!” He calls out, gesturing sharply towards his office before retreating inside. The two rise instantly, looking at each other with worried, confused expressions and hurrying to Waverly, closing the door on their curious colleagues.

"Sir," Gaby starts questioningly. Waverly turns, handing them each a pale white envelope with their names addressed in stark black ink. Illya recognizes the handwriting without hesitation and slides his finger under the seal and rips it open. Gaby follows suit and Waverly watches them with a grave face. Gaby's hand slowly raises to cover her mouth as tears burn in her eyes and spill over onto her cheeks. She can't finish the letter through her tears and she looks up to Waverly. Illya freezes, ice filling him, making it hard to swallow, hard to breathe. He looks over at Waverly and anger floods through him. 

"What is this?" he growls out and his fingers tighten on the creamy paper. He looks down immediately and loosens his grip. "What is this?" he demands again and Waverly moves to his desk. There's a similar paper there and his fingers touch the corner of it. 

"It appears," he lets out a heavy, shaky, breath. "It appears to be a suicide note." His voice cracks and he clears his throat, swallowing hard. 

"Did you know?" Illya growls and in an instant, he clears the desk. He has Waverly's shirt in one hand, the forearm of his other across his throat. " _Did you know what they were doing to him_?" 

Distantly he hears Gaby speaking to him; he can feel her and Waverly's hands on him, but all he can register is that Napoleon is gone. 

Somehow Gaby squeezes her way between them and shoves against Illya. He's breathing heavily, but he can think again. Waverly, smartly, doesn't move until Illya does, and only then does he rub at his throat. 

"I should hope that you, both of you, know I would never condone this. I wouldn't have allowed him to go back without trying to sort this out," his voice goes soft and Illya pants out of his mouth. Gaby rubs at the tears on her cheek, smearing her makeup. Waverly stays silent a moment longer. "Go home. Pack. I can have a flight out for DC tonight. His- his funeral is tomorrow." 

"Tomorrow?" Gaby asks, voice shaky. 

"He didn't have a family and… I hear he'd been- it had been a few days before he was found." 

Gaby makes a pained sound and wraps her arms around herself, like that will keep the pain inside. _He didn’t have a family._ Illya can’t move; he thinks he might have been turned to stone. 

"I will call you this evening with our arrangements. Dismissed." Gaby's eyes raise to see Waverly, back to them and shoulders stiff. She turns and all it takes is a gentle touch on the wrist for Illya to follow her. 

They walk out of headquarters stiffly, ignoring the curious and sympathetic looks of their colleagues. They walk mindlessly to the car and Gaby hands Illya the keys, breath hitching in her throat as she works to keep from sobbing in the parking lot. Illya swipes a hand across his eyes and Gaby tries to avoid blinking, tries to prevent the well of tears building in her eyes from spilling over.

The car starts and the hum of the engine purrs under them. The movement makes her stomach twist and her throat works to keep down the bile bouncing in her stomach. Illya drives them home and she can hear the creak of the leather on the steering wheel from the tight grip he has, but she can’t even bring herself to care. She can’t see through the swimming view she has and the world passes her by in a mirage of colors. She feels like she’s imploding. This isn’t real. Her whole body aches and bile burns her throat, but she can’t ask Illya to pull over; she can’t find a way to use her voice.

She’d been shot a few years ago; taken a bullet to the chest. Collapsed a lung. That’s how she feels now. An explosion of pain and she just can’t catch her breath. Without thinking, she raises a hand to rub at the scar through her shirt. She half expects to see her hand coated in blood like last time. She almost wishes it was, wishes this pain were as easy to fix as a bullet wound.

It never occurred to her that she might never see Napoleon again. Of course, there were risks in their job, but some part of her just knew Napoleon would always come back to them. He had enough charm to persuade Death into giving him another chance; she never thought he’d die at the hands of an enemy.

And well, she supposes she was right. He didn’t die at the hands of an enemy. She chokes on a sob and curls in on herself, like that would loosen the unbearable pain in her chest. Distantly, she feels Illya’s hand on her shoulder, but that just makes it worse. Napoleon had been _lonely_. They _knew_ that. They could read the desperation he tried to hide in his letters and they should have _known_ something was wrong. They’re _spies_ and they couldn’t see something was _wrong_. They thought he was humoring them, turning them away because he wasn’t _serious_ , but something else was going on.

_We haven’t seen each other in years. Lifetimes. We’re not what we used to be. Not partners, not friends, not…_

_I don’t want you to mourn a stranger’s death._

She can’t handle this. She wasn’t prepared or trained or _ready_ for this. She’s lost people, but it never felt like this. This… this is like losing everyone at once. She didn’t know Napoleon was still this much to her. But he was. He was everything and it wasn’t enough because she didn’t tell him.

She’s sobbing into her knees, choking for breath; she doesn’t realize the car’s stopped, that they’re home, until her door opens and Illya slides his arms around her and carefully lifts her out. She’s cradled to his chest and she wraps her arms around his neck; she should walk, but his arms feel so warm around her and she can’t do anything but cling to him.

They were a trio. It was always the three of them, even when he wasn’t there, it was assumed he’d _come back_. What does—what do they do now? Now that they know he’s never coming home?

She’s not sure how he does it, but Illya gets them in the house and locks the door behind them before taking them to the bedroom. Gaby clings to Illya and Illya curls around her. They both go to bed, but neither sleep.

\-----

The funeral is a lonely affair. They’re surprised to find not many people show and Gaby is one of the few that lays flowers upon the closed casket. She’d asked why, wishing to see him at least once more, and was told that he’d shot himself, “completely mangled the face,” the funeral director had said, ignoring the horrified look on Gaby’s face in lieu of telling the story. “Fell right into the river. Took a few days to find him.” The man puffs up his cheeks and uses his hands to demonstrate bloating before dropping them and getting serious. “We do good work here, but not that good.”

Gaby looks back at the mahogany wood casket and tries to imagine Napoleon, bloated and disfigured, but she can only see him as she last saw him: smiling the forced smile she hadn’t seen since East Berlin and walking out the door like it had been a choice. She goes to her seat in the front row between Illya and Waverly, her eyes unable to look away from the sheen of the glossy wood.

“We should have fought for him to stay,” she whispers to herself as tears burn her eyes. Illya looks at her, brow furrowed. He leans in slightly in silent question for her to repeat.

“We should have made him stay.” Her voice is hard and Illya’s mouth parts in surprise. She gets to her feet before she realizes it and she’s out of the room before he can comment.

It’s Waverly who finds her crying in the parking lot, sitting on the ground, the black tights she’s wearing snagged and ripped on the concrete. He doesn’t say anything, just goes to his knees beside her and wraps an arm around her shoulders. She leans into him and wishes she would cry herself dry. 

\-----

It’s rough. No one can pretend it’s not. They’re tense. They mourn. They cope.

They continue with missions like they always have. Napoleon hasn’t been by their side in nearly five years. This—his death—shouldn’t _really_ affect them.

They pretend it doesn’t.

They pretend so well, it becomes truth.

Of course, that’s when the wound is torn open again.

\-----

It’s been ( _ ~~128 days~~_ ) four months since Napoleon’s funeral. They don’t talk about it, preferring to ignore it and pretend as though Napoleon is simply with the CIA and they’ll make plans to see him at Christmas this year. It’s not healthy. They both know it. Waverly knows it. But they refuse to move past this because it _can’t_ be done. He can’t be gone. Watching him walk out the door, away from them, all those years ago couldn’t have been the last time they saw him.

It’s this adamant thinking that makes Gaby snap.

She and Illya are in Los Angeles supervising a prisoner transfer when she sees him.

He’s across the room, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets, staring at them. He’s still as tall as ever, towering over the people he’s surrounded by and when she catches his eye, he winks and suddenly she loses him in the crowd. Despite her training, she darts after him without thinking—reacting on instinct because she can’t let him disappear again. Illya shouts after her, but he can’t abandon the prisoner to go after her and she shoves her way through the throng of people with a racing heart.

“ _Napoleon_!” The name is ripped out of her and she spins, trying to see through the throng of people, but she doesn’t see the familiar black hair or blue eyes that are so different than Illya’s. 

“Gaby!” Illya’s voice is harsh and he grabs her arm tight in his large grip. She jerks and sees Illya holding her with one hand and the prisoner with the other. He’s breathing hard and his mouth is pressed in an angry line. “What are you doing?”

“I…” She looks around, eyes darting rapidly over the people. She doesn’t have an explanation. Not one good enough to explain recklessly endangering their lives and the life of the prisoner in their charge. “I’m sorry.”

Illya’s eyes narrow even further at her, but he lets her go and turns to guide the prisoner back to the car. Gaby follows after them and scans the crowd while trying to ignore the heavy weight in her stomach that feels like disappointment.

The transfer goes smoothly after that and Gaby avoids Illya’s pointed stares and questioning silences until they’re back in New York. Only once they’re in the privacy of their own apartment does Illya cross his arms and refuses to be ignored.

“I thought I saw him,” she says softly, voice cracking at the end. Illya’s anger disappears in an instant; he immediately understands who she’s talking about and his hands fall to his side. She turns away from his face and looks out the window. The sun’s beginning to set and the streetlights have flickered on, casting yellow light down the street and on their yard.

“It seemed so real. He was just across the room and… I don’t know. I couldn’t let him disappear again.”

“Gaby,” Illya says slowly once she falls silent and she bristles at the softness of his voice.

“I know.” The words are biting and she sets her jaw.

“Gaby,” he tries again and she spins to face him, nostrils flared in anger.

“I know, okay. You don’t have to speak to me with that tone—”

“Listen to me—”

“Not until you talk to me like-like your partner and not a- a- a broken child—”

Illya moves towards her and she falls silent when he touches her wrists, wrapping his fingers around her arms and holding them together in between them. She doesn’t realize how badly she’s shaking until he pulls her to his chest and wraps his arms around her. She collapses into him and grabs onto his shirt, fisting the material in her hands like she’s afraid _he_ might disappear too.

“I wish you were right,” Illya says into her hair and Gaby can feel the words vibrate in his chest, the heavy sadness is swarming in him like angry bees. “I wish you saw him.” 

Gaby moves her arms so that they wrap around his back and she holds him just as tightly as he holds her; she wonders how he stays standing.  
\-----

They’re in Sri Lanka this time when Illya sees him. His skin is sun-kissed and he’s almost overlooked, but Illya would know him instinctively anywhere. Illya freezes, his feet simply refuse to move and his breath catches in his throat as the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stand.

Napoleon has no reason to be in Sri Lanka. His mind is playing tricks on him. Napoleon is gone. _Dead_.

The stranger is standing across the market; Illya can only see his profile, but then he turns his face, just enough. The sun catches on high cheek bones and a strong nose, eyes that squint as he laughs and Illya swears he can hear it. The world falls silent and the only sound is his heartbeat thudding loudly in his ears and the ghost of Napoleon’s laughter.

It’s him. It has to be.

Illya’s trembling; he can feel the tremors race down his arms and he looks down at his hands to watch his fingers shake helplessly. He breathes shakily and then his head jerks up, searching, but once he looks back, the man he thought he saw was gone.

Illya takes a deep breath and moves to the side, hiding in the semi-shade of the buildings until his chest loosens and he can breathe again. 

\-----

Illya never believed in ghosts. There were always much scarier, much more real threats he was occupied with growing up. He doesn’t know what Gaby believes, but when he lays beside her at night, he thinks they’re being haunted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! I really hope yall like this! I also have the small little notes Napoleon wrote to Gaby, Illya, and Waverly written up but I'm not sure how they'll fit in the story. I think I'll just post them as a separate chapter and just have it like a lil extra bts thing. If yall have any better ideas on that pls let me know! The next chap is going to be f u n <3


	5. behind the scenes extras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is the chap with the brief letters napoleon wrote his UNCLE family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm not posting these bc I think they're particularly heartbreaking or well written lmao but I had to write them so I could get the right mind frame for some of their actions and I did add some sneaky things in here so I felt like I should post them anyways lol

**Letter to Waverly**.

This might be the hardest thing I’ve done. All my life I’ve been directionless; I acted with purely selfish reasons. And then I was assigned the Vinciguerra case and it wasn’t a surprise you wanted me for your agency after seeing me work; but it was a surprise how I was treated after you’d acquired me. My skillset was what peaked your interest, but _I_ was what you wanted.

The Italians have a saying: _Sono tanto semplici gli uomini, e tanto obbediscono alle necessità presenti, che colui che inganna, troverà sempre chi si lascerà ingannare_. The first method to estimating the intelligence of a leader is to look at the men he has around him. Director Waverly, you have surrounded yourself with smart capable agents and you have treated us not like assets, but as people. It had been a long time since a superior had treated me like a person and not a skillset. I had hoped to return back to your command as Napoleon Solo, a freed man. Today it became clear that will never happen. So rather than wait to die at the orders of an incompetent director, I’m taking matters into my own hands. You are a leader I was proud to follow.

Napoleon Solo

 

 

**Letter to Gaby.**  

My Dear,

today I learned I’ll never be free. My sentencing was a cruel joke and Sanders has no intentions of allowing me to return to UNCLE. The thought of seeing you and Illya once this was over was the only thing that kept me going and now, that hope has been extinguished. We haven’t seen each other in years, lifetimes. I don’t know what you believe—maybe that was selfish of me to never ask, with how often we brushed death together, but I believe we’ll see each other in the next life. Somehow. We’re not what we used to be. Not partners, not friends, not… We started as strangers and that’s how this ends; I don’t want you to mourn a stranger’s death. You deserve so much more than this and I can only hope you can forgive me for the pain I have caused you.

All my love, Napoleon

 

 

**Letter to Illya.**  

There are so many words I want to say to you but only three matter: you were right. About most things, about the important things. You were right. You don’t avoid a war, you simply postpone it to your own disadvantage and that’s what I’ve done. I walked away four and a half years ago because I thought I’d lose the battle to stay with UNCLE, but I’d win the war and come home. I hadn’t realized the war was lost the moment I left. Sanders was never going to let me come home and I should have played this very differently. I miss you, Illya. I miss you both so much. Please know I never stopped loving you.

I hope you understand this is the only way I can find an out. Take care of Gaby and take care of yourself. I absolutely hated working with you, Peril, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. 

Yours, Napoleon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Classes have started up again but I promise to work on the next chap and to have it up soon <3


	6. Chapter 6

“Come on, come on, wake up.”

The voice drifts to Illya in a fog, distorted and mumbled, but Illya tries to obey anyway. His body throbs in pain and he can’t remember where he is or how he got here; when he opens his eyes, he closes them back into a squint at the blinding pain. The room is too bright—the light reflecting off the white walls and the white floors, hospital-like in their color. It takes him too long to realize someone is holding his face and his eyes drift around sloppily as he tries to focus.

“Come on; look at me,” the voice prompts and Illya uses all his effort to focus on the man in front of him. The outline is blurry, but Illya would recognize those blue eyes anywhere.

“ _Cowboy_?” The name melts out of his mouth and he tries to reach out, but finds his arms are tied down.

“Yeah, I’m here, Peril,” he says softly and he moves to the side to undo the straps keeping Illya down. The moment he’s free Illya reaches out and grabs Napoleon’s arm tightly, too tightly; his hand meets solid muscle and his heart pounds hard in his chest, making his head throb. “Sorry it took me so long to find you.” 

Napoleon’s eyes are dark with worry and the smile he tries to give Illya is tense. Illya doesn’t respond other than to tighten his grip on him. Napoleon’s eyes flicker over Illya’s face a moment before he slowly loosens Illya’s grip and guides his arm around his shoulder, wrapping one of his own arms around Illya’s waist to help him stand. Illya didn’t image he’d ever again feel Napoleon at his side and he blinks away the tears suddenly pooling in his eyes. Napoleon has them flush together and Illya can feel the rumblings of him speaking, but he can’t understand the words he’s saying. But he doesn’t need to understand; he trusts Napoleon implicitly and he simply lets his partner guide him out.

Illya stumbles over his feet once, nearly taking them both down a flight of stairs, but Napoleon’s strong, so much stronger than Illya remembers, and he manages to keep them both upright. They don’t stop until they’re outside of the compound Illya had been held in and Napoleon lowers him gently to the ground. Illya watches with wide eyes as Napoleon begins patting him down.

“Are you alright?” he asks, but immediately shakes his head, dismissing the question. “I know you’re not, but other than the obvious; did they do anything to do?” His voice is deep with concern and when he looks at Illya, his brows furrow deep lines into his forehead.

Illya doesn’t wholly understand the question, but Napoleon is staring at him so intensely, Illya can’t help but reach out to touch him. He cups his cheek; his thumb stroking the corner of Napoleon’s lips. The skin beneath his fingers is smooth and Napoleon closes his eyes as tears burn in Illya’s.

“I missed you,” Illya chokes out. He feels like his chest is caving in. Napoleon exhales softly against his hand.

“I’m sorry,” Napoleon says, voice wavering. He reaches up and covers Illya’s hand with his own. “I’m sorry.” 

He holds Illya’s hand a moment longer before pulling it away. Illya twists his wrist before they’re separated and wraps his fingers around Napoleon’s hand. 

“Illya, let go,” he says, looking at their intertwined fingers. “Gaby’s coming. I have to go.”

“Cowboy—” Illya starts, but chokes around the rest of the plea. Napoleon closes his eyes and leans in, pressing a kiss to Illya’s forehead.

“I have to go, Peril.” 

“Please.” Maybe it’s the plea, because Illya has never begged for anything, or maybe Napoleon is just so tired of being away from them, but Napoleon visibly hesitates and then sits so that he can hold Illya upright.

Napoleon sits with his legs spread and Illya between them, his arms wrapped around Illya’s chest and holding down his arms. They twitch and spasm under him, as do Illya’s legs, and his head lulls back against Napoleon’s chest.

“Come on, Illya. You have to stay awake. Gaby’s on her way; she’ll be here any moment.”

“I don’ understand,” Illya mumbles. His eyes are still closed and Napoleon’s heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest in worry.

“Shh,” he says, “I know it’s okay.” Russian falls from his lips and Illya tenses. “You can’t go to sleep yet, Illya. Wait until Gaby’s here with the backup.”

Illya mumbles something else, but his voice is too soft to understand. Napoleon bites his lip and resists the urge to shake Illya awake. Gaby’s on her way. Illya will be fine.

The sound of footsteps cracking through the underbrush surrounding them makes Napoleon scramble for the gun at his side and his hand clenches around the warm metal. Four men in tactical gear swarm into view and Napoleon doesn’t relax until he sees Gaby, walking through them like a goddess through fog. She has on less gear, but a vest protects her chest and a helmet covers her head; she stumbles when she sees him, but the other UNCLE agents continue to swarm him, raising their guns and keeping them trained on him. He attention is on them for only a moment before his eyes find Gaby again. He hears them yelling, demanding to know who he is and to unhand their agent, but he can’t move under Gaby’s thunderous gaze.

“Release Agent Kuryakin. We won’t ask again.”

Gaby looks away and like a jolt, Napoleon realizes the very real danger he’s in. He slowly raises his arms and two of the agents rush forward and grab Illya. Napoleon irrationally aches at the loss and he wants to grab him back; Illya’s safe in his arms. Napoleon could at least feel him breathing.

“Who are you!” It comes to his attention that that question’s been demanded of him several times and he looks up at the agent speaking, but they both look identically stony.

“I’m—”

“ _He’s a ghost_.” Gaby says, voice sharp and Napoleon flinches. She waves down the guns trained on him and they obey hesitantly. “He was never here. Am I understood?” Her voice is ice and the two agents nod. She looks over her shoulder and raises her voice to the others, “Clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” was the immediate response. She nods her satisfaction and then fixes her gaze back on Napoleon.

“Get him to the car,” she says, but she’s talking to the other agents. She waves her hand at Illya’s form, eyes never leaving Napoleon. The agents are quick to do as she says and soon it’s just the two of them.

“Gaby,” he says, hesitantly. In an instant, her cold mask cracks and a myriad of emotions flow across her face.

“Don’t.” She takes a step back. “I can’t believe you would do this to us.” Tears well in her eyes and she blinks angrily, causing them to spill over and run down her cheeks. Napoleon’s chest aches and a knot grows in his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he says thickly and he knows, even as he says it, it’ll never be enough. He doesn’t move off the ground, even as he aches to move towards her, to touch her. He stays seated and lets her glower down at him.

“I don’t want your apologies,” she grinds out. He falls silent and watches as she composes herself, an angry mask of indifference covering the hurt. He’d be proud of her if it didn’t hurt so much. She looks away takes a loud, deep breath and when she looks back at him, he doesn’t recognize her.

“Thank you,” she says, scornful. “For saving him.”

She leaves without a backwards glance and Napoleon can’t find it in him to move after her.

\----- 

When Illya next opens his eyes, he’s in a hospital room. Two agents stand guard by the door and Gaby’s folded in the chair by his bed. She jumps to her feet at his movement and touches him all over, her hands fluttering nervously over him; he reaches up and stills her movement by grabbing her hands in one of his large ones. All at once, the tension drains out of her body and she speaks softly in relieved German.

“I am fine,” he says, settling her hands down to rest on his chest. She twists her hand and grabs hold of his, intertwining her fingers with his. His voice is raspy and he wonders how long he’d been asleep for.

“You are now. You weren’t, though,” Gaby says too softly and then presses a kiss to his lips, quick and chaste. Illya responds on instinct, but he’s frowning when she pulls away.

“Did you get me out?” he asks, haltingly.

“No,” Gaby answers slowly after a moment of hesitation.

“Then…” Illya frowns. His hands clench in the thin hospital blanket and Gaby strokes his arm gently. At the touch, the memory of his rescue flashes through his mind and he gasps, struggling to sit up.

“Easy, Illya,” Gaby says, pushing him down and he grabs at her wrists.

“Gaby,” he says in a rush. His voice has dropped to a whisper and he looks to the door at the agents acting guards.

“Gaby, what I am about to say… it sounds insane. I had thought we both were going crazy, but now I am positive we aren’t—”

“Illya,” Gaby interrupts gently. Illya blinks, surprised he was rambling, and looks to the bag of fluids entering him through the IV in his hand.

“Napoleon is alive. He got me out.” He hopes she will believe him- hopes she won’t stare at him with the same haunted gaze they both get sometimes and that she won’t dismiss his words due to the medication coursing through him.

“I know,” she says after a long pause. Illya blinks in surprise, eyes wide and wild. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out the small ring with napoleon’s family crest he’s rare to be seen without. “He was there when I found you. You had this in your hand.” She places the ring into Illya’s palm and he fists his hand around it. 

Illya’s heart starts racing and the monitor responds accordingly; the loud beeping of the machine filling the room.

“You have to stay calm,” Gaby says and Illya looks trapped, looking at the monitor and then down at his chest like he might get away with ripping the contraptions off.

“ _Is he here_?”

Gaby’s chin trembles and Illya reaches for her, but she moves away.

“Gaby?”

“I left him there,” she whispers and her voice cracks. “He was just sitting there. I should’ve made him come with me. I could’ve arrested him, but I was just… mad. I was so mad, Illya.” Her voice cracks on his name and she turns a teary look at him. He wishes he could stand so he could comfort her, but as it is he can’t get up and she won’t come closer to accept his comfort. She turns her head away and a soft sob escapes her lips.

“This isn’t your fault,” he says.  She doesn’t look at him and her shoulders tremble. “Gaby. Listen to me.”

After a moment’s pause, she looks at him. Tears fill her eyes and she’s biting her lip with the effort to stop. He holds his hand out for her and she shuffles closer to take it. He pulls her closer still and reaches up to cup her face.

“This isn’t your fault,” he says again, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Understand me?”

She takes a shaky breath and Illya strokes her cheek with his thumb. “We’ll find him, Gaby.” He thinks of chapped lips on his forehead, of warm strong arms around his chest. “We’ll find him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is a fairly small one for you but I wanted to have something up! After looking at my outline, I'm thinking there will actually be 2 more chaps still left! I hope you enjoyed it and i hope yall are still invested :) Let me know what you think!!

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! Thanks for reading! I do have mostly all of this written, it just needs edited and polished, but I'm excited and want attention so I'm posting this bit now ;) Hope yall find the concept good so far!


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